


If You Despise That Throwaway Feeling

by objectlesson



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Worship, First Time, M/M, Or maybe like? Service Top Thorin, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Romance, submissive Thorin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Thorin shakes his head, long black braids sweeping the sheets and then, as he shifts further down the bed, Bilbo’s thighs. “What I want…I want to worship you,” he says then, pressing his cheek to the inseam of Bilbo’s trousers, icy blue gaze flicking up to linger. “I am yours. Your slave.”And—oh.Well.That wasn’t what he was expecting.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 41
Kudos: 289





	If You Despise That Throwaway Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I was like i'M nOt GoNnA wRiTe HoBbIt FiC1!! 
> 
> WELL CLEARLY that was a mistake. A vile lie. Deeply untruthful. I have been doing nothing but writing Hobbit fic for forty eight hours, betraying my own trust. Actually, wait! I did to something else in the last 48 hours! AND IT WAS WATCH THE DESOLATION OF SMAUG. So whatever. I'm a lost cause. Sometimes...bro...when you're not white...you just get tired of the constant act of decolinzation and there's like a global pandemic going on and making it so that you can't see any of your goddamned friends so you just-fall back into the horror of white-dude literature you liked when you were ten. And that's ok!! I say, Let Them (myself) Eat Cake (Thorin and Bilbo fucking). 
> 
> Anyway. so here's another little PWP. I learned that Richard Armitage said Master and Servant (yes, the Depeche Mode song about BDSM that my wife and I have matching wedding tattoos of, HEY-O!) is a very Thorin song??? So, sub-thorin is canon, I don't make the rules. This is about him eating ass and Bilbo being like wtf do people do this??? but it feels good? So Im into it??? anyway that's it that's the story. 
> 
> Also thank you everyone who was so very sweet in the comments on this fic! I know the Bagginshield fandom is sort of dead but like. I'm here, I'm a party. So thank for slinking back those of you who did! I appreciate it!!!

—-

Bilbo has thought about it quite a lot, really. How things might go were he lucky enough to end up in Thorin Oakenshield’s bedchamber. He imagines Thorin’s fierce rough hands, his hungry mouth, the sheer weight and breadth of him enough to crush the air from his chest, firm and solid and delicious. He imagines feeling torn asunder, and split in two, and _held_ together in the wide splay of those palms all at once. He imagines the heat, the longing, the friction, the _absolution._

But now that it’s actually _happening,_ Bilbo is somewhat terrified. 

It’s just that—Thorin is so very _large._ Not by Middle-Earth-in-its-Entirety standards, but compared to Bilbo? Certainly. He’s broad and dense where Bilbo is narrow, soft, _breakable._ And then there’s the matter of hunger induced madness. For Bilbo could go _entirely_ mad with desire and still achieve about as much as a very small dog begging for scraps. He sees himself, short and snappy and fierce, but still so easily kickedaway _._ And then there’s Thorin. Tirelessly determined. Incredibly powerful. Capable of pursuing things to their end no matter the odds stacked against him. Thorin, who, if he _wanted_ to destroy Bilbo with the force of his want, _easily could._ Who might even succeed in doing such thing _without_ meaning to. 

And up until this point. Bilbo was fairly sure he could handle that. Or perhaps even that it was precisely what he wanted. 

But that was before Thorin scooped him up into his arms like he weighed nothing, and put him up against the wall to kiss so deeply Bilbo thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe. “ _Oh,”_ he gasps between hot, needy drags of their mouths. _So this is how it is_ he thinks, hands grappling desperately for purchase over the hard, flexing planes of Thorin’s shoulders before they rise to tangle in his long hair. _You’re going to break me, I suppose._

The thought sends a needy lick of heat down into his stomach, twisting inside of him. He _definitely_ wants it, he’s wanted it for months now. But at the same time, the daunting practicality of lying with Thorin has him in knots. He wants it to feel _good._ He wants to be able to _walk_ in the morning. He’d like to _survive,_ if possible. 

Very suddenly they’re in Thorin’s quarters, the walls flashing around them in a golden kaleidoscope as Bilbo tries to get his bearings. The room is gilded, cavernous, beautiful. It glitters and blurs around Bilbo as he’s deposited on the sprawling bed, their mouths still joined, his legs still clinging madly to Thorin’s thick waist. “What do you want?” Thorin asks him. And there, amid a heap of plush skins, Bilbo braces himself to be ripped up to bits. 

But that’s not what happens, not yet. Thorin presses their foreheads together and just gazes down at him for a moment as if waiting for his answer, palming from his flushed face to his throat, where blood thunders like a stream overflowing with melted snowfall. “Tell me what you want, Master Baggins. _Bilbo,”_ he prays, voice cracking over the name like it were something Holy. “My love.” 

Bilbo closes his eyes and writhes against the sheets, so overwhelmed he feels like he's burning up, like he’ll leave a pile of ash upon the bed if Thorin keeps _touching him_ like this. He’s thought of this exact scenario so many times, but never imagined them with such raw expressions devotion. Of longing. It’s dizzying to hear the way Thorin’s voice has gone soft and ragged over every word, it makes his heart clench helplessly in his chest. Thorin’s hands maul over him, pushing under his tunic to touch skin, feverish and sweet as Bilbo tries to remember how to speak. “I want. Well, I want whatever you want. Have your way with me, that’s what you’d like, isn’t it?” Bilbo stammers, wincing at the lovely, reverent drag of calloused thumbs down his ribcage. He _does_ want Thorin to take him, he’d like that very much. At the same time, it’s just—it’s so very much. His weight, his breadth, his starvation. The way he touches Bilbo like he might crack him open along a seam to suck out the brine. Bilbo feels like a shucked oyster, which is thrilling at the same time it sends a tide of anxiety crashing over his body in waves. 

Thorin shakes his head, long black braids sweeping the sheets and then, as he shifts further down the bed, Bilbo’s thighs. “What I want…I want to worship you,” he says then, pressing his cheek to the inseam of Bilbo’s trousers, icy blue gaze flicking up to linger. “I am yours. Your slave.” 

And—oh. _Well._ That wasn’t what he was expecting. It makes Bilbo’s stomach bottom out so violently he has to right himself among Thorin’s pillows, sputtering. “I—you are _my_ slave?” he says then, scrunching his eyes shut tight before they fly open in astonishment because— _because_. It’s _absurd,_ to think the king of Erebor, with his steel and his iron and his _glory,_ could be _anyone’s_ slave. Much less _Bilbo’s._ Bilbo the burglar, the Halfling, the accidental asset. Small and crafty and clever but never _commanding._ He shakes his head, fingers snagging through Thorin’s silver-streaked curls. “I feel you must be mistaken, Thorin. _Thorin,_ King Under the Mountain, is—well I can imagine you’re _no_ one’s slave.” 

“I am yours,” Thorin says simply, kissing his way down from the tender plane of Bilbo’s inner thigh to the joint of his knee, lashes lowered and fluttering like the darkest half-moon against his cheeks. “I live to serve you. To give you pleasure. Just tell me how you want me,” he murmurs, breath so hot it bleeds through the linen of Bilbo’s trousers, making his cock twitch in anticipation.

At first, it seems laughable: _him_ telling _Thorin_ what _he_ wants. As if his desires matter in the shadow of every lovely, impossible shape Thorin cuts into the horizon. But then, here, with Thorin obediently sinking to his knees on the side of the bed, eyes pleading…it occurs to Bilbo that this is _not_ all that different from how their dynamic existed _outside_ the realization they were in love. For the last year, he’s _become_ the person—the _only person—_ who can tell Thorin what to do. He’s the only one capable of putting his foot down. Of renouncing fear in the face of Dragon-Sickness. _He is not my king,_ he used to tell himself when it was time to stomp off and declare to Thorin that eat his blasted dinner or _stop_ pacing and brooding and lowering morale or whatever else Bilbo took it upon himself to enforce because he believed he knew better. Whether or not he realized it, he’s been ordering Thorin around for _months,_ now, and he supposes that these circumstances should prove no different. In fact, it’s far more comfortable territory than allowing himself to be bent in half and _cored_ without complaint. “Really,” Bilbo murmurs, shifting so the he can perch at the edge of the vast bed, thighs spread to bracket the width of Thorin’s shoulders. “You’d take orders from a Halfling?” He asks , making a fist in Thorin’s braids and tugging experimentally. 

To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin does not resist. He goes right where the pressure directs him, gasping as Bilbo drags him up his thigh, closer to his cock. “Not any Halfling,” Thorin reminds him in a rumble, licking his lips, palms splayed wide and subservient over Bilbo’s knees to steady himself. “The one I love. My heart.” And then, that crystal blue gaze is sweeping down his body, snagging on the way his trousers are tented. Thorin licks his lips. “So what will it be, master Halfling? How will you use me?” 

And perhaps it’s not very creative, given the current placement of Thorin’s head, but it’s _definitely_ crossed Bilbo’s mind several thousand times in the last several seconds, so. He clears his throat awkwardly and says, “I suppose I would like it very much if you were to, well. Take me into your mouth. Provided that’s something you’d—“ Thorin cuts him off with a groan, and scours his lips on the worn linen, eyes fluttering closed, brow creasing. “Is that—is that a good sound? A yes? Because it doesn't _have_ to be that if you’re opposed to—”

“Opposed? I’m not opposed, Bilbo, I—I dream of this. Dream of you. What you might taste like,” Thorin growls, thumbing up to Bilbo’s waist and popping the button of his trousers as he mouths over him through the fabric, making him gasp. “Also,” he says then, grinning so briefly it is nothing but a single flash of white, like a dove streaking across a cloud-dark sky. “You do not need to be so _polite._ ” 

“I feel like— _ah—_ the least…one…can _do,_ when he’s about to be serviced in such a manner is to be polite,” Bilbo manages to force out as Thorin licks him through his trousers, sloppy and hungry and _oh goodness,_ he never even imagined something so obscene and glorious could happen to him. That someone could _want_ him badly enough to grow impatient with his _clothes_ , let _alone_ that person could be _Thorin._ Thorin who looks sculpted and statuesque and breathtakingly beautiful even here, on his knees, cloaked in darkness and desperation. Thorin who is grand in the way kingdoms are grand. The way mountains are grand. Vast, incomprehensible. 

“You’re perfect,” Thorin says then, hardly listening as Bilbo stutters. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Bilbo’s trousers, and instead of rucking them down over his thighs in a single motion as Bilbo has imagined him doing, he peels them off carefully, kissing each new patch of exposed skin. It’s slow and so very careful and it gives Bilbo time to think too much about what his body might look like, the ways in which is he neither impressive nor repulsive but simply— _is._ No longer a weak body but certainly not a _strong_ body. Just bones and muted musculature under layers of Hobbit-softness, and perhaps this new heightened awareness of his mediocrity _should_ make him squirm in discomfort, but then, there is Thorin. Thorin breathing against him, thumbing over soft rolls and smooth planes, Thorin, making his skin shine with saliva in the flicker of candlelight. Thorin, telling him he is perfect, with such astounding confidence Bilbo would be mad to question it. He cannot worry about any of this, because Thorin makes it impossible to worry. “Lift your hips so I can— _yes,”_ Thorin breathes, eyes flashing, dark with pupil as he wets his lips and frees Bilbo of his trousers. “Let me see you.” 

And Bilbo has played this out in his head, too. Being exposed, eaten up in the wildfire of Thorin’s gaze. But always, it was after Thorin greedily undressed him. Never with Thorin sitting back on his heels, gaze wet and wavering, mouth parted over a gasp as Bilbo reveals _himself._ The way Thorin regards him makes his hands tremble as he settles back on the edge of the bed, cock hard and dripping against his stomach. He feels— _powerful,_ almost, which is perhaps difficult to recognize for what it is because it’s so terribly foreign. He palms himself and Thorin tracks the movement, eyes so wet in the half-dark. _I’m sorry if I’m not everything you expected_ he thinks of saying, _again_ an expression of politeness simply for the _sake_ of being polite, but he stops himself , because it’s _absurd_ to be polite when you’re naked in a man’s bed and he’s clearly wants to choke on your cock. So instead he swallows, and fidgets, and murmurs, “Your mouth is hanging open.” 

Thorin shakes his head, drifts closer, thumbs up the shaft of Bilbo’s cock with prudent awe. He looks small compared to Thorin’s hand, but in a delicate, pretty way, so it does not inspire shame. Only anticipation. “So it is. Forgive me.” 

“Perhaps if you put it to good use…” Bilbo offers, trailing off as his cheeks color because he is simply _not_ used to giving orders under such circumstances. In fact he’s not used to giving orders at all, _or_ such circumstances, for that matter. He hardly recalls the last time he experienced pleasure outside the dull comfort of his own hand, so when Thorin finally _does_ curl his fingers greedily around his length before affixing the maddening heat of his mouth to the crown, it feels like _drowning._ It’s too much and not enough all at once, and Bilbo cries out and collapses onto the bed, spine arching, hips seeking the molten wet of Thorin’s tongue. And then he’s lost to suction, to slickness, to the whole of the sea. 

There are stars in his eyes as he attempts to ride the swell of sensation. Thorin is surprisingly sloppy at the task, any skill or finesse he may possess overtaken by sheer hunger, which for some reason is all the more wonderful, as it’s a testament to how powerfully he covets Bilbo. Most maddening of all, he _moans_ as he does it, like sucking Bilbo is somehow akin to being sucked. As brilliant, as overwhelming, as searingly hot. He swallows him down deep enough he chokes, spit frothing up from the seal of his lips and dripping down into the red-gold curls between Bilbo’s thighs, the whole of him disappearing inside the mess of Thorin’s mouth.

All Bilbo can do is hold on. He tangles his hands into Thorin’s hair, nails razing helplessly against his scalp as he rocks his hips beyond his own will, a mess of gasps, of curses. In moments it’s almost _too_ sensitive, when the head of his cock hit the back of Thorin’s throat and everything is nervy and dripping and inescapable, but Thorin holds him down so he cannot squirm away, for which he is grateful, because he wants it _all_. Every pulse, every tremor. And just as he feels he’s beginning to totter on the edge of some dangerous precipice, Thorin pulls away, gasping, a filament of drool keeping his swollen mouth connected to Bilbo’s cock. He kneads his thighs in his big hands for a moment before thumbing past his sac and into the crease of his ass, rubbing experimentally. “Please,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Bilbo’s thigh, beard coarse and grounding as it stings. “May I?” 

Bilbo laughs deliriously, feeling flayed to ribbons, like he’s died and been resuscitated ten times over already and Thorin hasn’t even pushed _inside_ him yet. However, he finds he’s not frightened by the prospect of being hollowed out any longer. He’s too needy, he wants too _much_ to think clearly, so see beyond his own desire. Plus, there’s Thorin’s bent head, his subservient kneel. As unlikely as it is, _Bilbo_ is somehow the one in charge, here. The one with final say. And that _alone_ is enough to take the edge off of his fear. 

“You may,” he says, thumbing sweat from Thorin’s temples, hips rolling messily. He cranes his neck up to peer down at Thorin again, for he wishes to witness his gratitude, but he’s _stunned_ to find that he’s touching himself: one hand tugging his own thick cock, the tip glistening temptingly by fire-light, his muscular stomach heaving just from _this._ From tasting. From serving. “My goodness,” he says then, falling back, gaze obscured with static he’s so dizzy with want. “You _absolutely_ may.” 

And he thinks he knows what he’s expecting, when he gives Thorin permission to further touch him. He expects Thorin to clamber onto the bed, to bracket him between his thighs, to bend his knees towards his chest so he can push oiled fingers inside him, stretch his body in preparation. He’s just assumed that was what Thorin was referring to because he’s got it in his head that it’s what Thorin _wants,_ in his heart of hearts: to take him, to _fuck_ him, to spill inside him. It seems in Thorin’s nature, after all, to possess the things he loves. 

So of course, Bilbo is shocked with that’s not what happens at all. 

Instead, Thorin makes a wounded, broken noise before hooking his arms around Bilbo’s legs, tugging him to the edge of the bed so that he almost capsizes off of it, and pushing him up and back so that he can get _under him_ somehow and then— _then,_ there’s nothing but hot, filthy wet deeper and more intimately than Bilbo ever thought filth and wetness could be. Thorin’s humid exhalations, the scrub of his beard, the infernal slickness of his tongue laving in broad, hungry strokes over the place his _thumb_ was only _just_ rubbing at with curious pressure. 

It has never occurred to Bilbo that this is a thing which people _do,_ but now that it’s being _done to him,_ it seems rather brilliant, if not scandalous. He cannot believe Thorin _thought of it,_ that he _asked to do it,_ like this is something he’s wanted, something he’s _craved._ He’s certainly acting like he’s sating a long-standing craving as he licks, rumbling and drooling and deepening each stroke, until he’s prying Bilbo apart, pushing up _inside_ him, spearing the tight ring muscle with his tongue. 

It is without a doubt the filthiest, most astounding thing that’s ever happened to Bilbo, and there are tears in his eyes, knots in his gut. His cock is flexing against the soft curve of his stomach and and without even realizing what he’s doing he takes it in hand, skin slick and messy from Thorin’s spit. He touches himself and in two, three, _four_ frantic strokes he’s coming, spilling over his fist and onto his own chest in burning pulses, whole body still hung up and flayed open on the sensation of Thorin licking him out, rough and hungry and without reprieve. Moments later, as Bilbo lays sprawling and panting in a mess of his own come, He feels Thorin tense up between his thighs, and cry out, mouth still a hot smear against his him, somewhere he does not have a name for. Some formerly unimportant place on his body, a skin-fold where the plump curve of a thigh meets his ass. He cannot believe that Thorin loves him enough to come with his teeth pressed there, indenting pale flesh in a haphazard half moon. He cannot believe Thorin loves him enough to kiss him there. Kiss the mark he made, kiss a pathway from it to the inside of his knee before heaving himself up off the floor to join Bilbo in bed, hands mauling over his smooth chest, through the wreck of his hair. “Thank you, thank you,” he murmurs, voice still a dark, reverent scrape in the dark. “May I kiss you?” 

And _of course he can,_ Bilbo doesn't even think of why it’s a necessary thing to ask until he’s wordlessly pulling Thorin in with a fistful of his hair and sealing their lips, only to be hit with a powerful wave of _himself._ Thorin smells like him, tastes like him. Bilbo licks it from his lips, inhales it from his beard, and it should be dirty, or at least _strange,_ but he finds himself groaning at the knowledge that Thorin _wanted_ to be covered in him this way, that Thorin loves the way he _tastes_ enough to bury himself in it, mark himself in it. “Oh— _oh,”_ he murmurs as he pulls away dizzily, sucking in desperate lungfuls as Thorin kisses down his throat, wet and sweet and breathless. “That was. It wasn’t— Well. You are full of surprises, Mister Oakenshield.” 

“Are you satisfied?” Thorin asks him, swinging a leg over Bilbo’s hips to sit atop him, weight crushing, solid, certain. When he touches Bilbo’s chest with roving hands, however, they’re gentle, and Bilbo supposes that this is the way Thorin is: capable of destruction, but better suited to tenderness. A glittering, precious stone brought forth from layers upon layers of rock and earth, crumbling away to reveal something astonishing. 

Bilbo smiles because he cannot help it. Because he’s recklessly happy. Because he’s incomparably pleased with himself. Because he is in love with a man full of facets like the loveliest secret, something raw and precious and half-buried in black dirt. “Very satisfied.” 


End file.
